


make it slow and sweet

by fictionalcandie



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalcandie/pseuds/fictionalcandie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kris + Adam + marijuana in the mansion = this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make it slow and sweet

Adam has no idea where Kris even got the weed, much less how he got it into the mansion. But weed Kris has, and he’d smiled all earnest and wheedling when he’d suggested they smoke it, and Adam must have agreed at some point because now they’re out by the pool, crammed sideways into one deck lounger. Adam’s in loose track pants and a looser t-shirt, but Kris is in cargos and a tank top, looking hotter than he has any right to, and they’re one elimination away from being in the finale together— and, yeah, okay. Adam could really stand to get high.

Even if it is past midnight, and they’re in the Idol mansion, and it’s _Kris fucking Allen_ smoking up next to him, body hot against his side through their clothes.

“Love pot,” Kris declares after a while, as he lifts the spliff to take yet another hit.

Adam is starting to feel boneless and unspooled, stress and tension and worries all seeping out and away, and it’s _delicious_. He watches Kris’s mouth around the joint, slick and pink and agile, and the longer he stares the more fascinated he feels. It’s not fair, that mouth, obscene in Kris’s home-grown wholesome face, the only thing that fits with it the wicked light in his eyes.

Kris pulls the joint away, holding the smoke a moment before letting it out his nose. He licks his lips.

Adam wonders if he could taste sex and want and sin off them or just pot and Kris, if they’d be as delicious as Adam’s body feels right now, wonders what they feel like, that plump naughty little curve.

“Here,” Kris says, and he offers up the blunt: Adam takes it automatically and lifts, not quite inhaling and _still staring_. Kris licks his lips again, and then before he knows it Adam’s other hand is moving, too.

“Hey,” he says, fingers curling around the back of Kris’s neck and pulling him in, “hey, c’mere.”

“Adam?”

Kris looks a little confused, but he’s smiling some too, and when Adam shifts his hand to cup Kris’s jaw, Kris doesn’t stop him. Adam swipes his thumb over Kris’s mouth, pushes a little at the seam of his lips, and Kris opens for it, all cooperative, so Adam hooks his thumb in the corner of that stupid, hot, luscious mouth as he brings the joint up to his own and takes a long hit, holding. Then he’s pulling the joint away, sliding his thumb out of Kris’s mouth as he leans down, fits his lips into Kris’s spread ones — and Kris seems to get it, closing his lips tight over Adam’s so that when Adam lets go, opens his mouth, the smoke goes half into Kris’s as they both inhale.

It’s a rush, taking the hit like that, feeling the pot and Kris and the wet glide of lips against his own and, fuck, _Kris_. Kris doesn’t protest, just hums, a happy, rumbly, warm little sound.

Everything’s muzzy and indistinct in Adam’s mind and he can’t remember why he shouldn’t, so he pulls away, just long enough to pull on the blunt, and leans back in, blowing smoke and his own breath into Kris’s mouth, sucking it back into his own the next moment — he does it again, and again, until he’s dizzy with it and Kris is gasping and panting every time Adam pulls away.

The next time, with the roach almost burned down to Adam’s skin, he lingers for a second, just a bit longer than he needs to because they’re almost out, he doesn’t want to stop ever, they’ll have to roll another and — Kris’s hand is on the back of Adam’s head, twisted in his hair, holding him still for another second, and somehow their lips are moving, sliding over each other, and that’s Kris’s tongue slipping in alongside Adam’s, Kris’s teeth clicking against his.

They’re kissing and it shouldn’t surprise Adam — they’ve been mouth to mouth for minutes and minutes and minutes, maybe _hours_ for all he can tell — but this is Kris licking Adam’s lips and sucking his tongue and doing it all endlessly.

“Kris,” pants Adam, the hand he has at Kris’s neck getting him just enough space to force the word out.

“Mm?” is Kris’s response, a low murmur as he catches Adam’s bottom lip in his teeth.

Adam forgets what he was saying.

He doesn’t know how long they make out. At some point, Kris scoots a little closer, and Adam pushes at his shoulders, and Kris leans back against the lounger, and Adam slides most of the way on top of him — Kris’s hands are up the back of Adam’s shirt and Adam’s fingers are curling down under the band of Kris’s shorts — and Kris is most of the way lying down and Adam’s between his thighs, Kris squirming up as Adam grinds down and the blunt is somewhere, Adam thinks maybe he tossed it on the table but he’s not sure, it doesn’t matter with Kris’s knees digging into his lower ribs like this.

It feels like forever that Adam’s been hard, a steady thrum under the fog of pot, but suddenly it is _urgent_ and all he can think about.

Kris’s mouth leaves his as Adam shifts, moves up until his hips are pushing down on Kris’s abs and one of his thighs is riding snug and perfect against Kris’s dick, hard in his shorts.

Under other circumstances, Adam… Adam wouldn’t be doing this, but if he were, he’d be trying to get Kris’s shorts down, get his hand inside them and wrapped around Kris. He’d want to figure out what that cock feels like, in his hand, against his skin — he still wants that, it’s just too much work right now when he can just ride against Kris through their clothes and it feels amazing anyway.

There’s a thump, close enough to hear but probably not in the next couple of rooms over. It takes a minute for Adam to process the sound, but then he does and he freezes, fingers curling tight as he pushes down hard on Kris’s hips to hold him still too.

“Shit,” he breathes, turning his face into Kris’s hair and trying not to pant too loudly, trying to keep still and quiet when giggles are bubbling up in his throat suddenly — god, this is ridiculous, the lamest thing ever if someone catches them like this, fuck, fuck he hopes they don’t get caught — and all he wants to do is moan and thrust against Kris’s nice firm belly until he comes.

Another thump, identifiable as a heavy footfall, and above that, Gokey’s voice muttering some kind of complaint.

“ _Shit_ ,” Adam says again, on an escaping giggle, and for good measure, “Fuck.”

“ _Dang_ it,” Kris agrees, with breathless little snickers into Adam’s neck, like maybe he thinks it’s hilarious too. He tries to wiggle against Adam’s hold, push his hips up and rub his dick against Adam’s thigh. “I want— Adam, I want to— God, I need to get _off_ , damn it, _Adam_.”

“We’re smoking weed,” says Adam, as quiet as he can, “and _humping on a piece of patio furniture_ , d’you really want Gokey to catch us right now?”

Kris tilts his head back, craning to get a better angle at the same time he tugs at Adam’s head. “Tell him I‘m tastin’ your freckles,” he says, and licks over Adam’s mouth.

“That’d work, sure,” says Adam, distracted, wanting to kiss Kris some more, wanting to move again, but— Noises, and Gokey, inside, and—

The footsteps are receding, getting fainter and hard to focus on. Adam hangs onto the sound of them, doggedly, until he can’t anymore, and then he’s opening his mouth to Kris’s tongue, swallowing little giddy giggles, and rocking down steadily like he never stopped. Kris moves beneath him, matching Adam’s thrusts with lazy upward thrusts of his hips, clinging on with his legs around Adam— and at some point both of his hands have ended up in Adam’s hair, fingers all twisted up in a giant mess that Kris uses to tilt Adam’s head back, to lick and suck and bite at his neck.

Adam doesn’t know how long it is, how long they lie there in the uncomfortable deck lounger, humping and kissing and grinding, all horny and sloppy and high, but eventually Adam’s coming, making a mess of his pants and not even caring because it feels so fucking good, like the whole night, the whole _competition_ has just been leading up to this, to toe-tingling orgasm while spread over Kris on a spindly patio chair by a pool. Adam groans, low and shaky, and slows.

Kris whines, says Adam’s name desperately. He keeps rocking up into Adam’s weight on top of him, weak pushes without any rhythm— then he’s crying out and shuddering all over, legs going briefly tighter around Adam and teeth scraping the skin over Adam’s collarbone.

“ _Man_ ,” gasps Adam, because Kris sounds so _amazing_ that _something_ deserves to be said, and starts moving again, causing Kris to let out a string of little whimpers.

Adam gets a hand under Kris’s head, lifts it up and angles their mouths together so he can taste those whimpers on his tongue. Then they’re kissing again, just like before, just like at the beginning, only slower, surer.

A bit later, Kris says “Should stop,” lazily, but doesn’t really try to do anything at all like stopping.

“Mmhm,” says Adam, and keeps kissing Kris.

“Hungry,” says Kris, even later.

Adam agrees with that. He says, “Yes,” and keeps kissing Kris.


End file.
